


don't feed me, i will come back

by zealotarchaeologist (orphan_account)



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Spoilers for 2x05, Torture, also there is sex but it's quick, i tried to keep it fairly tame but uhhh yknow. this show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 04:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18731746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: When Villanelle offers to let her watch, Eve takes her up on it.





	don't feed me, i will come back

**Author's Note:**

> that episode wrecked me so utterly i had to write something based on it immediately. i feel like the show is building towards eve killing someone herself and villanelle is going to be right there with her, pushing her through it...
> 
> you can take this as set before my other fic if you want, though it has a very different tone.

When you love someone, she thinks, you want the best for them. You have to bring out their best self, their _real_ self. Villanelle has never been married and never wanted to, but she has heard often that marriage is a partnership.

Her dear Eve is afraid. Not of some silly Ghost or even of Villanelle, but of herself. It’s sad to watch her, spinning in circles. Her poor, lost Eve.

That’s what love is for.

“Want to watch?” She offers out in the woods, bats her lashes, uses that voice that always makes girls wild for her. Eve, special Eve is no different from them in this. Her pupils are blown wide open. She will probably refuse, but there will be other opportunities.

“I,” Eve starts, stops. Takes a breath and holds it. “Alright. Yes.”

 

 

Villanelle is a professional. She knows better than anyone that physical torture is woefully ineffective at getting any kind of useful information. And this Ghost is a professional too, she is trained not to break from pain.

But better than being effective, torture is fun.

Granted, this wouldn’t be her first choice of victim—she likes a screamer or a pleader. Someone who will react. But her Eve has asked for this, so she will deliver. They can still have fun. The wheels are already turning in her head: what will Eve like best? She likes stabbing, of course. The intimacy of it, the visual.

“Monster.” The Ghost spits at them, both of them, as they approach.

“Nice to meet you too!” Villanelle responds, cheery. “Now you know how this will go. You will answer my Eve’s questions, or I get to do whatever I want. Yes?” Eve is stiff as a board behind her, tenser than the two of them put together.

She doesn’t answer. Unsurprising, but ideal anyway.

“Watch, Eve.” She calls over her shoulder. “You should know how to do this.”

Villanelle takes the Ghost’s arms in their cuffs, pulls them back. She doesn’t even try to fight. Disappointing. “You take the wrist.” She demonstrates. “Like so.” The woman has nice arms, even for their line of work. Sadly they are nothing compared to Eve’s.

“All you are trying to do, baby,” Villanelle pulls the arm back further, braces her own forearm against the elbow. “is push the joint to its breaking point. Okay? Now watch.” Normally she’d just snap it, make a clean break. But Eve needs to learn. So she pushes, pushes, bit by bit and she can see the tension in the muscles there, the skin distended until—

Eve does not flinch at the distinctive sound of tearing ligaments. Good. Very good. Villanelle watches her now as she does the other arm, quicker this time. Eve’s eyes on her, not on the woman in her grasp. Yes, it’s very good.

Cutting is next, just for her Eve, a perfect woman for a knife if there ever was one. It’s boring stuff but pleasing to look at, long shallow cuts on her fingers and hands. “This would be enough if you’re doing it to an amateur. Lots of nerve endings here, very painful.” She tsks and slides her knife through the woman’s palm. So sad, an assassin needs her hands. The Ghost does not cry out.

Eve clenches and unclenches her hands. Maybe she’s thinking about the pain. Maybe she’s thinking about what it would be like to hold the knife.

“You still won’t talk?” She asks, her brows knitted up in sweet concern. Eve looks torn between nausea and arousal. This might be all she can take for now. That is alright. They can work up to it.

Villanelle flashes a smirk and swings her leg across the Ghost’s lap. She does not react.

Good assassins, trained like they are, won’t give anything up for pain. But she has something better than that, more useful even than a knife. She leans in close, so Eve can’t hear, and tells the Ghost about her children. The name is a misnomer, really. A real ghost wouldn’t be so attached to her little brats.

Villanelle leans backwards, watching the dawning horror on her target’s face. The way her eyes go dull as she tells them what they need to know. Eve is nodding along as she talks, keen-eyed and eager even as she wishes she was feeling sympathy.

The Ghost slumps forward when she’s done talking, heaving as though she vomited up the answers. “Monster,” she says again, hoarser and weaker. This time it’s only directed at Eve. “Tell your dog to kill me. Go on. Monster.”

_I know, right?_ Villanelle wants to say. Isn’t it great? Eve is worse than her, the kind of person who would use her as a weapon. She’s finally found her match, the perfect woman for her.

Even if she’s not ready yet. “I don’t,” stammers Eve, backing away. “I’m just here to observe. For safety.” A lie, and a poor one at that. She’s aroused, Villanelle can tell. If she were to touch her right now…

“Her dog thinks our time here is up!” She chirps, already dragging Eve to the door. “Think about what I said, won’t you?”

 

 

Villanelle takes Eve afterward, presses her back against the shipping container in the same way they stood in her kitchen the night before. All the plans in her mind flown out the window, she wants Eve and wants her now. Eve agrees—grabs her hand—pulls it between her thighs and they breathe together.

“You liked that.” It’s not a question. “Tell me the truth.”

“Fuck.” Eve tosses her head back, side to side, can’t look Villanelle in the eyes. “Fuck. Fuck it, yeah, I did.”

Villanelle does not relent. “Good.” She presses her face into Eve’s neck. No perfume, not even hers. Just dirt and blood and the smell of adrenaline sweat, arousal and fear.

Eve is the one doing most of the work, really, pushing her hips down, fucking herself on Villanelle’s hand, her mouth open in grief or pleasure. This woman, all she ever needs is a push in the right direction. Soon she’ll see. Love is about bringing out the best in each other.

“Next time, baby,” Villanelle says, husky and low into Eve’s ear, “next time it will be your turn.”


End file.
